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Morning.
November 25, 2009
Blackness.
Then a sliver of light
that…that slowly…that slowly expands to
a sun, a flash, and then my room.
Is that all there is?
Like in Shakespeare’s the Seven Ages of Man,
we are born.
We grow. We woo. We age. We live until we die
and our dust swirls up and above and around
the innocent heads of the newborns
And it all starts over.
And I am just going through a stage,
Each second bringing me closer to the
Talons of death.
With in mind, I throw off the sheets
to the side and hop down the bed,
A hop closer to my last hop.
© Anonymous
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